Manuscript

The package arrived late morning and sat largely unnoticed on the corner of her desk. It was unobtrusive, wrapped in brown paper. The address was neatly printed in black ink on a white label. There was no return address.

She was the editor and, therefore, received similar boxes all the time. Manuscripts. Plays. Novels. Poetry. Once or twice some misguided songwriter tracked her down, thinking she would read his words and transform him from starving musician to a star.

It was four hours and several meetings later when she finally turned her attention to the unassuming package. She tore into its wrapping eager to discover what potential treasure lay inside. She tossed the cover letter aside, assuming it contained the standard pleas for publication of what the author assured her to be a literary masterpiece, the likes of which she had never seen before.

Instead, she gently lifted the manuscript from the box. It was in a blue three ring binder. Odd, but not entirely unheard of. It wasn't a secret that she would immediately toss all unbound submissions directly into the recycling bin. Every editor had her preferences. Hers was not to be shipped a mess of papers, which half the time were also unnumbered. If you can't make it easy for me to read and page through your work, I'm not going to...

She turned to the first page, with all the excitement of a little child on Christmas morning opening a present. It may seem silly to you, but she loved this part of her job. The discovery of something new, something wonderful was just...awesome.

The first page contained two words - I lied. She wrinkled her nose. Lousy title. Not a good start...

The dedication page made her raise an eyebrow. "Dearest Fleur, some promises are meant to be broken."

Such a strange inscription. Stranger still was her reaction to the words. Her palms were clammy and fingers trembled noticeably as she turned the page.

The prose was child-like in its approach, the storytelling dreadful. She knew this less than 10 pages in, but she felt an odd compulsion to keep going. When she finished skimming to the conclusion, she sat in silence. She couldn't move, couldn't think. Then she picked up the manuscript and hurled it across the room, screaming obscenities at its author.

Only then did she notice the cover letter on its tacky blue marbled paper, still mocking her from its perch on her desk. He was shopping it to every major publisher in the country. He promised the story would run and, when it did, she would be ruined.

Angry tears streamed down her face. She was Jill fucking Flowers... The dynamo editor. The one who turned Paramount around, transforming it to from a floundering company to the world class publishing house it was today. The strong businesswoman that made her colleagues cower in the boardroom.

But this story told a different tale... Jill Flowers. Victim? Assailant? She shuddered, trying to block out those portions of her past that she had long since buried.

There was only one other person who knew this story - HER story - well enough to have been the author. And he had to be stopped, no matter the cost.